Remember to Forget
by midfielder
Summary: Memory is partial to self-preservation. story premise: olivia has returned, but she might have lost something on the way back.
1. Chapter 1

Remember to Forget

Memory is partial to self-preservation.

"_This comfort is not what it seems,_

_Is not what it seems."_

- Opaline, Dishwalla

The one and only time he decides to step out of the room is when she wakes up.

He had meant to take a brief walk; his back and legs have become tense and stiff from having not left her bedside since they found her three days ago, lying unconscious and, by all outward indications, unharmed at a small community graveyard in Jacksonville.

The speculations for the whats, whys, and hows (and the rhetorical, "is that even possible?") have been put on hold. Walter has been weaving theories the instant he received the call from Broyles, but he was adamant in not participating in any of it. This wasn't just another one of their cases; the usual sway of burning curiosity has been replaced by something far more consuming, and it clutches at his chest, allowing him only shallow breaths and scant hours of sleep. He has a feeling it will not subside until he finds her eyes looking back at him again.

That might be today, he glosses over the thought as a scream pulls him back to the room. There is a stinging sensation in his legs that makes him half-run and half-limp, and all he could do is mutter "shit" when the nurse gets to her room first. _Some protector you'll turn out to be._

She demands and he overhears: "How did I get here? What happened to me? Is Rachel here? No, my sister. How about Broyles? Has he come by yet? A Peter Bishop? Who's that?"

By the time she finishes, he's at the door and it's too late to process or to grieve.

She's awake, fixing him a steady, soul-baring stare with not the slightest hint of recognition.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Lost

"_I was lost in the pages_

_Of a book_

_Full of death"_

- Like a stone, Audioslave

He had called Rachel in because she was the only person she would talk to. (She had asked for Charlie, but, well, that conversation obviously didn't turn out so well.)

He thought he'd understand that she needed space. He thought that she'd rubbed off of him enough to allow him some measure of maturity, a pretend semblance of patience. He thought that he'd woken up from too many nightmares, featuring the horrors and mind-warping torture she must've suffered through in the two months that she was left on _that_ side. He thought his love for her was selfless, the stuff of innocence, and the stupidity of an unrequited love.

But when he was asked to leave by Olivia herself in that commanding (and now impersonal) way of hers, he could only muster enough self-control to step out of the room before he punched the wall.

Just two months ago, he belonged somewhere, felt he had found his place in the ever-expanding universe, and now, well, now, he's lost again.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: More than one

"_You know there's more than one way_

_To say exactly what you mean" _

- Out of my head, Fastball

"Dissociative amnesia."

It's not a question. Skepticism is his default state of mind.

"Well, it's possible that Olivia suffers from a dysfunction of the hippocampus, manifesting in a form of dissociative amnesia."

"Yes, Walter, I know what dissociative amnesia is." He grinds his teeth together. He hates _not knowing_. When it will end. How it will end. _If_ it will ever.

"Not unlike your usual PTSD-generated amnesia, I suppose, but obviously more extensive in depth and length. Imagine having no recollection of almost two years of your life? No memory of what you've done, who you've met, and where you put the severed hand for that re-animation experiment you've wanted to do. Uh, I realize that I don't really need to _imagine_ that, do I?" There's a pause, a dip in his momentum.

But then it'll take more than missing brain tissue to derail Walter Bishop's meandering exposition.

"But it is quite fascinating, is it not? Like someone pushed a reset button and voila, two years is gone. Disappears, evaporates, Pfffttt! At least she didn't have her skull drilled open, brain tissue sliced off and stolen, in which case her memories would be irretrievable," he waves his hand in the air, as though throwing away something.

"Oh, oh, oh! Wait! It might be…well, no…,"

He circles him, obviously mulling over his latest theory, and Peter is grateful that he's not figuring this out on his own, alone. Losing Olivia (more than losing his real, parallel-world identity), then getting her back, and _then_ losing her again to memory loss has left him winded and generally directionless. Walter has become more and more his anchor to the seafloor of sanity. Which should alarm him if he had the energy to be alarmed.

But exasperation is setting in. The waiting, thinking, speculating only grates on what little patience he has left. He hates, hates, hates _not knowing_. When can he mock himself and laugh about this with her. How can they move on from this. And if they do, will they do it together or apart (and just the _possibility_ of the latter weighs heavily on his chest, driving down on the hope for sunrise, a lifelong drinking partnership, and maybe a house near the sea so he could teach them how to build sandcastles and have Olivia call them in for pancakes).

"That might not be the case at all. But we can't discount the possibility…"

"Walter! Just...just spit it out!"

"Perhaps, it is a byproduct of a cortexiphan-enhanced mind. You say she doesn't remember you, me, Aspartame…anything that has happened since our lives have fatefully intersected. Memory, like everything else, aligns itself with the human inclination for self-preservation. I believe that her mind, without the frailties of an average human being, has enabled her to built an enforced shield, protecting itself from what it perceives to be harm…"

"_I_ would never harm her." He cuts him off, his admonition taking on the aggression of a growl. He stands up, deciding, impulsively (because he still doesn't know how he'll do it), that he has to make her remember. She needs to remember him.

Walter, being Walter, continues to talk. "Ah, well, this isn't a question of intention, son. Those who give us the greatest joy are the very ones who bring upon us the most exquisite and stomach-gutting of pain, whether intentional or not. They made love ironic so that humans can write poetry."

He is by the door, putting on his coat, when the elder Bishop asks, "Are you going to write one for Olivia?"

"What?"

"A poem, of course."

"Walter…,"

He lets out a deep sigh.

"Thanks."

He shuts the door, shaking his head all the while. Humor, however unintentional, lessens the weight on his shoulders.

_Maybe I will._


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Surprise

_Surprise, surprise_

_Couldn't find it in your eyes_

_But I'm sure it's written all over my face_

- Sunrise, Norah Jones

He's driving.

There was a time (when his mother committed suicide, particularly) that he came to the very "ungenius"-like epiphany that all he needed for the rest of his young life was a car on a full tank. He had driven for hours on end, never really having a destination in mind and not really bothering to remember where he'd been. He just drove. And drove some more.

The hairsplitting doubled-edge of genius is to see patterns where the ordinary mind can only make out a jumbled, unconnected mess. Of mathematical relationships. Of physical phenomena. Of molecular composition and reactions. Of behavioral conditioning and social engineering.

Life choices, however mundane and uninteresting, are not exemptions (and this is where the _other_ edge cuts him).

He sees the pattern to his decisions, knows how it fuels his already consuming sense of purposelessness. He understands the social phenomena of human charisma and he exploits the knowledge thoroughly, wearing the shiniest armor of cynicism and self-deprecating humor. It is a higher form of defense mechanism, yes, but a defense nonetheless, specifically crafted by and for him to not despair (hope) for the things he doesn't have (that he may or may not want to have, but dammit, he wants to _know_ first before he dismisses them forever or chases them to his death).

His brief travel to the other side had been the pinprick that let it magnificently burst open – the lost and confused childhood memories (which might not be his, only absorbed through Walter's stories); the feeling of displacement in classes, with "friends"; the quiet distance, the carefully guarded guilt in his mother's eyes; the malleability of his character, making him the ideal conman; the allure of this family arrangement they had going; the faith-shaking blow of betrayal; and the carton-made idea of his "real" father.

_That_ cumulative despair has been leaking into his consciousness ever since. And no amount of self-directed wisecracking could help plug the leak in.

He had meant it, his usually healthy ego deflated and defeated: I didn't belong there. I don't belong here either. (If the melodrama wouldn't cramp his style, he would've added: I don't belong anywhere.)

But, but, but (and the breath he feels he had been holding all his life, he finally lets out) she meant it.

Fierce with the certainty and rare, unabashed honesty that shocked the question out of his searching eyes: _You belong with me._ He took what was being offered becausethiswas Olivia Dunham. Olivia Dunham doesn't bluff in the (only remaining) sacred contexts of love, loyalty, and family. Olivia Dunham is someone he actually, unequivocally wants to be with. He thought he wanted something; he had it then, realized he still wanted it, and dammit, now the chase begins.

He's been driving for the past half hour.

And he's here.


End file.
